Odds and Ends
by sillysillypanda
Summary: Collection of one shots, all set post Mockingjay. Spoilers. Different pairings, characters, etc. in each chapter.
1. First Story: Poetry

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. If you recognize it, probably not mine.**

They call him Nick, and he grows up in the waters. He can swim before he can walk, fish before he can speak in full sentences, and weave nets before he can write. He has eyes as green as the sea, bronze hair, and skin kissed tan by the sun. He is the recipient of many, many kisses, mostly from his mother, for whom it is practically a physical pain to let go of his chubby little hand, who refuses to let him out of her sight, even for a moment. He takes that for granted; it is the way things have always been, after all, for all his five years of existence. His life has always consisted of his smothering mother, who is always there yet not always there, and his father, who is never there at all, except when Mama weaves images of him out of her voice, which falters and trails off halfway.

Papa was kind. And brave. And good. And strong. Nick looks just like him, with his brilliant smile and green, green eyes. Yes, Mama has green eyes too, but yours are darker, just like your father's. No, no, sweetie, Papa won't be coming home soon. Why not? Well, because Papa lives far, far away now, not next to the blue water like we do, dear, but next to the blue sky. Well, because he had to move there, darling, he didn't want to, but he had to. We had to do a lot of things we didn't want to, when we were younger, both Papa and Mama did, because we wanted you to be never have to do any of those things. No, he loves you very, very much, with his whole heart, Nicky. He always said …

When she trails off and her eyes – green, but just a shade lighter than his own – lose focus and cloud up with tears she never lets fall, he knows that it is time to stop asking questions about Papa.

Other people don't know that though. Chattery people, with too-big lips and too-small eyes and prying voices, ask Mama about Papa all the time and think that it is okay to stare at him and exclaim how he is the spitting image of his father and don't you just know he'll grow up to be a little heartbreaker one day? Mama purses her lips at that description; sometimes, when she is enough there, she will sweep out regally, arm protective around his shoulders, head held high with disdain. Mostly, though, in her varying stages of not-there, you can see her own broken heart peeking through the pieces of this once beautiful woman. Those are the times when he takes her hand protectively, and scowls up at the nosy people, and tells them as fiercely as he can to leave. Them. Alone.

They do. They always listen to him.

He doesn't like those times. The times he likes best are when he and Mama sit on the beach, half in the water, half out, cool and hot and sleepy and awake all at the same time, and they make silly little rhymes and poems. Nick has a knack for it, which makes Mama smile this strange half-smile that lets him know she's thinking of Papa again, Papa who wrote silly soppy love poems to her; only she never fades off when they're making poems on the beach, like she usually does when she remembers Papa. Instead, her smile only grows wider—there's bittersweetness there, but there's pride too, and so much love that Annie Odair can practically feel it leaking out of her broken heart, though little Nick doesn't know that.

Sometimes she recites some of Papa's poems to him, and they are soft and sweet and gentle, like the steady rocking of the waves that can lull you into sleep on a summer day, but they are also strong and fierce, like the sea right after a storm. Those poems, Mama confides in her son, are things Papa never shared with anyone, except her. He told others that his main talent was being gorgeous and charming, and he was, but his secret talent was with weaving words so vivid and bright you could practically taste their sweetness, practically feel their weight in your palms and on your skin. These were his Papa's closest thoughts, which captured, as much as anything could, the essence of the man she still loves, and who loved her, and who loved their son.

When he is old enough to read, and to understand, Mama shows him an old, tattered notebook, full of Papa's poems. They're written in a half-illegible scrawl which Mama says is Papa's own handwriting, which makes it even more precious to Nick. She says it belongs to him now, if he wants it.

He wants it. He is all of twelve years old, and he is finally meeting his father.

For the first time in a long time, in just about forever, Mama lets Finn leave the house without giving her precise details about where and how long and why and with whom he is going. She understands. She is wracked with anxiety and terror, which she tries to soothe by knotting and unknotting, knotting and unknotting, but she understands. More than anyone else ever could.

He goes to the beach. Dusk is falling, misty over the waves, but Nick sits, half in and half out of the water, with a flashlight in one hand and his father's thoughts in the other.

Most of them, so many of them, are the same poems Nick heard his mother croon out to him on those beach days. Some, he realizes with a start, he recalls hearing his mother murmuring in her sleep, or to lull him to rest when he was young, very young. These are the gentle poems, soft and warm as fresh bread, sweet as the candy his mother buys for him at the market. Poems about love, and hope, and dreams and forever.

But there are some that are harsh, too, tortured, with images surreal and disturbing as a nightmare, written with a frenzy that reminds Nick of an unrelenting storm. Hurricanes of blood and the crunch of bones splintering like driftwood and green eyes, sea eyes, haunted by ghosts and goblins and – what's worse – living, breathing, broken people. These poems are entrancing in their own way, so much so that little Nick – who despite his own self-perception, despite the fact that he has aged beyond his years, more than he has a right to be, is still young, so very, very young—cannot draw his eyes away from the frantic scrawl. He is horrified, terrified, mesmerized, hypnotized.

These are his father's thoughts too. These are poems about fear, and vengeance, and hatred, mixed in with the sonnets about love and tenderness.

This is his father's voice.

Nick is breathing hard as he comes to the final poem. He turns the last page.

It is titled _"To my son."_

He stops breathing altogether, for a moment.

He has to squint to make out the words, it's so dark, and there is a pounding of urgency surging through him. Beneath his breath, he curses (he has the vocabulary of a sailor, after all) the illegible chicken scrawl, but he blesses it with the same breath.

His hands are trembling as he deciphers the poem, syllable by syllable.

_To my son_

_If I should die before I wake,_

_I have just one last wish to make:_

_To hold my son within my arms_

_And know that he is safe from harm._

_To see him smile his mother's smile_

_And know this fight has been worthwhile._

_To know his dreams are free to grow,_

_And watch his tiny face aglow._

_To whisper in his ear so dear_

_That he will never have to fear._

_And to ask that he takes care of her,_

_The woman who was my whole world._

_I hope he dreams the dreams I never could,_

_And chases all the things he should:_

_Poems, magic, childhood love,_

_Wishes made on stars above._

_I hope he's free to be a child,_

_Free to roam and to run wild,_

_To swim the oceans as he dares,_

_To give his heart to one who cares,_

_To never give, to never yield,_

_To know that hope is his best shield,_

_Above the rest, I hope he knows_

_The reasons for the path I chose._

_And that if I should die before he wakes,_

_With the final breath I take,_

_I will_

It ends there. Nick feels a coldness, a numbness descending upon him. It ends there, as if the poet was distracted in his final lines, wandered away and never returned. Never returned, because he will never return.

Now Nicky will never know his father's final – and first – words to him.

He is crying, and he is not sure why. No. He knows exactly why. He is crying, because he will never know the man with this awful, awful excuse for handwriting. He is crying, because he will never, ever, be able to put a voice to these poems on the page. He is crying, because he wishes his father had lived long enough, even for just long enough to finish that final poem.

But he is smiling too, through his tears, because at least his father began that one last poem to his someday son, and at least Nick knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the kind of man his father was. And that even if he doesn't have the voice ringing in his ears and memory, he has the words, clear and true in his heart. And that is more than he ever dreamed to have of his father. And for now, for him, that is enough.

**A/N please forgive my lame attempt at poetry. I'm sure Finnick was a much better poet than I. Reviews are lovely**


	2. Second Story: Confessions, Part 1

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. If you recognize it, it's probably not mine.**

"Cat," I say lightly, curled up against his chest as we sit in the meadow beyond the barbed wire fence. I'm weaving a chain of daisies in my hands. "You told my father, when we told him we were dating, that you'd had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?"

I stare up at him expectantly, meeting his deep gray eyes with my own blue ones. He stares back and, practically unbidden, a slow smile starts to unfurl across his face. As if he's not even thinking about smiling, like just the sight of me, next to him, makes him smile without his even realizing it. The thought makes me flush, and causes a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.

He does realize, however, that I am waiting for a response when I elbow him in his stomach.

He laughs, and I tell my heart that it is most certainly not allowed to beat overtime, because Catneth has hunter's blood running through his veins, just as I do, and it's not totally unreasonable that he would be able to hear my thump-thump-thumping heart. And that would be embarrassing as hell. Even if he is my best friend. Among other things.

"Oh, let's see. I guess the first day I came to District 12, just for a visit, with my father. I was five, and so were you. We got off on the train station, and were just wandering around 12, and we slipped out beyond the fence and we saw you, by the lake. You were with Cin, he must've been just three or so. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair . . . it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out right before we were about to turn back to the village," Cat says.

"Your father? Why?" I ask. Cat looks just like his father, except his features are a smidge finer, his hair a shade blonder, his eyes much, much brighter. His father is a gruff, harsh man, hard and aloof with everyone except his only son, his pride and joy. And Cat loves him back, with all his heart. Almost all his heart. Excepting the portion that belongs to me, greedy, selfish girl that I am.

"He said, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a baker's boy,'" Cat says.

"What? You're making that up!" I exclaim. Well, not the part about Daddy being a baker's boy. Grandfather had been a baker, apparently, though he had died in the War before Cinna or I were born, and Daddy is still the one who cooks in our house, because Mom burns everything she touches. But the rest…

"No, true story," Cat says, crossing his heart with his finger as he does, "And I said, 'A baker? Why did she want a baker if she could've had you?' No offense to your dad, of course. Baking is a noble profession and all, but, well…" the sparkle in Cat's eyes lets me know he's teasing me, lets me know that he knows that Dad is so much more than just a cook, "And then he said, 'Because when he speaks… even the mountains would get up and move if he asked them to. And he has eyes so blue, you could practically drown and float and sink and swim in them. And when he smiles, it's like you just know everything is going to turn out alright.'"

"That's true. That's all true," I say. I'm stunned and surprisingly moved, thinking of that gruff old man, gray-eyed and gray-haired, though his hair was probably black back then, telling this to a young Catneth, "People do listen, and listen hard, when Papa talks. And his eyes are terribly, terribly blue. And when he smiles…"

I trail off. I guess Cat isn't the only one who adores his Papa.

"So I stayed my ground and refused to move until you turned around and I saw you smile, at least once. It didn't take very long, you were twirling Cin around and around, and then you saw us and you froze like a deer in the woods once it sees you. But then you smiled, really big. And it was like seeing sunshine and blue sky after a rainstorm, and-" Cat is never sweeter than when he is being earnest.

"Oh, please," I say, laughing at his flattery.

"No, really. That's really, really, how it went. And then you came up to us and started talking away, curious and fearless, nothing like a deer, and I knew — just like your mother — I was a goner," Catneth says. "Then, for my next eleven visits with Father to 12, every summer like clockwork, I tried to work up the nerve to approach you, befriend you."

"Successfully," I add cheekily, taking one of Catneth Hawthorne's huge hands in mine.

"Successfully," he agrees, squeezing my hand gently, "Thank God, Eve Mellark. Thank God."

**A/N: Yes, I purposefully paralleled the way that Peeta told Katniss about when he fell in love with her. And I think it would be ridiculously adorable if Gale had a son and he married Katniss and Peeta's daughter. Eve is short for Evening Primrose. More on Cathneth's name later, I think.**


	3. Healing

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games are not mine. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.**

He almost mistakes her for a boy the first time he sees her. It's not a completely unforgivable almost-mistake. After all, she is blonde hair, cut short, short, short in a pixie cut, and she is tall enough to look him (him!) in the eye without having to crane her neck, and she is lean and muscular as a cat, feral-ly so. The fact that the first time they meet, her back is to him and she is dissembling and reassembling what turns out to a grenade launcher so fast that her hands seem like a blur doesn't hurt the misconception either.

But he doesn't mistake her for a boy, not for one instant. Because he grew up with the queen of all tomboys, and he can spot a girl when he sees one, despite how thick the protective layer of grime and desperation and kick-assery may be. Not that kick-assery is a solely male attribute; he would know that best of all by now. But still. Masculine pride dies hard and all that.

Katniss had no feminine graces to speak of; she was anti-social and harsh and terribly, terribly pragmatic to the point of being unfeeling. Nothing charming or sweet or romantic. (Not that charm or sweetness or romance are skills reserved for females. But still.) And that pragmatism, maybe, is the one thing she shares with Cassia.

Cassia, who is blonde hair cut short, short, short, and who is tall enough to look Gale in the eye without craning her neck, and who is lean and muscular as a feral cat.

Cassia, who is District Two, and can core an apple by shooting a bullet into its center, but keep the sweet flesh intact and unbruised, who can take apart and put back advanced weaponry faster than he can say Mockingjay.

Cassia who, like Gale, like Katniss, like the whole damn country, has been broken to shards by the Capitol and the war and who, like Gale, but not like Katniss, is brave enough to stand on her own two feet and try, at least, to fix the messes that she both inherited and made. Who is willing to be a feral cat, without morality and high-minded ideals, because those are luxuries her country and her family can no longer afford. The first time he sees her, her warrior instincts (she was in training, as a Career tribute, back Before) prickle and she knows that she is being watched from behind. She instinctively whirls around, pointing the newly-reassembled weapon directly at Gale's heart.

He sees the cool recognition spark in her big brown eyes. Doe eyes, he thinks. They're terribly gentle eyes for a girl he later learns was the head of the revolutionary forces within District 2, for the spy who spearheaded the resistance once the avalanche came crashing down, using the frenzy as a cover for her attack. It was almost as if the two of them had planned the avalanche out together, though that was impossible, of course. They hadn't even met until after the war was through.

It's natural that she recognizes him. His isn't a face that is easy to forget, and it was plastered on screens across all of Panem when District 13 managed to hijack the Capitol's communications. And it's lucky that she recognizes him in time to keep from pulling the trigger and blowing out his abdominal cavity.

"You're Hawthorne." It's not a question. "The one who made the avalanche. And the trap-bombs."

He's not proud of that, but he's not ashamed either, so he says nothing, just stares steadily back at her.

"They were brilliant." She says, and then pauses for a long, long time. It's not the kind of pause that invites a response, so he keeps quiet. "You loved her, didn't you." That's not a question either, and he doesn't need Cassia to spell out who 'her' is. That's another thing about Cassia that sets her apart from Katniss; the blonde never, ever, shies away from saying exactly what is on her mind, no matter who or what will end up getting hurt because of her truths, as Gale quickly discovers, "We're in the same boat then, huh?"

That surprises him, and it shows in his face, he supposes, because this cool blonde girl cracks a sharp smile, sharp and broken and painful as a shattered icicle. But a smile nonetheless.

"I'm Cassia. At least your Katniss came home after the Games," she says, and she puts out her hand to shake his. Her fingers, unlike his, unlike a boy's, are thin and delicate and surprisingly soft for someone so obviously accustomed to holding weaponry all day, "Cato never did."

He doesn't remember who Cato was. Probably a District 2 tribute who died in a Hunger Games. He hopes it wasn't one of the boys that Katniss killed.

"Well, if you ever need to talk about long lost first loves, feel free to find me," she pulls her hand out of his (he hadn't realized that he was still holding it, how had that happened?) and starts to walk away.

He glowers after her for a bit, and then strides off in the opposite direction. As if he's going to open up about Katniss to a stranger girl, no matter how gentle her eyes are. That hurt is still too fresh to talk about, especially to a complete stranger who thinks she knows it all.

But Cassia doesn't stay a stranger for long. Because, the thing is, he is still the one who is best at setting traps, and it turns out that she had a mechanical knowhow that almost, almost rivals Beetee's, at least when it comes to shooting and explosions and firearms. Oh, she doesn't know all the technical jargon or electric gadgetry theory that the old man does; she's the car mechanic to Beetee's rocket scientist. But she gets the job done.

And they have a hell of a job left to them.

Because after every revolution, there is a counter revolution, and this one centers around District 2, which was the Capitol's stronghold. Snow's subordinates, ex-Peacekeepers, and some citizens who plain old got disillusioned by how brutal District 13 could be (out of the frying pan, into the fire much?) have been gathering in the mountains around the weapons district, and it is Gale's job to trap them. He can sketch out his plans, but he needs Cassia's flying, dexterous fingers to turn his paper ideas into cold, hard metal and bright, hot explosions.

So they talk. A lot. Holed up in a commands room, alone, together, for hours and days on end, laying out schematics for traps, building models, building real, explosive death-contraptions.

They talk about traps, about shooting with bows, shooting with guns. He talks about his younger siblings, who live in the Capitol now, with his mother. She talks about her cousin-who-was-like-a-sister-to-her, and how she died rebelling against the Capitol in the fight during the avalanche. They talk about mines, talk about quarries. They talk about their hopes and dreams for Panem.

And, eventually, after months and months of working side by side, for the same cause, of talking together and sharing memories and dreams, they talk about love. It's easier for Cassia – she's had over a year to rip her heart to shreds like paper confetti, and if the pain is still blinding, at least it isn't fresh. At least she doesn't have to live with the knowledge that she wasn't good enough for Cato.

For Gale, all of the pain of losing Katniss is fresh as District 4 sushi, and he still has Peeta's face burned in his mind. But at least Katniss is alive. He wouldn't trade places with Cassia, not for all the meat in the world.

He talks about how falling for Katniss was as natural as breathing – you don't even realize you're doing it until someone points it out to you. He was probably in love with her weeks and months and even years, maybe, before he noticed it, and how once he noticed it, it was so hard to not think about how much he adored her.

She talks about how falling for Cato was hard, hard, hard as rocks and bricks and steel, because there was always, always the knowledge that they could very well face each other in the arena someday, and they would never stoop to sully their love by using it to earn votes of sympathy. How she was so afraid, that she never really let herself think about falling in love with him until it was far too late. But how she fell for him anyway, because even if you fight it, there are some things that are inevitable, and, painful and scary as they may be, they are good and true_. _Loving Cato was inevitable, and so damn _right. _

He talks about how loving Katniss was like loving a wild thing – something fierce and proud and strong – and how you never really give up hope that it might someday love you back.

She talks about knowing Cato for years before he loved her, and before she loved him, before they became Careers, before he turned disciplined and strong and ambitious and brutal. How she was the only one he ever showed his other side to – the boy who was afraid of the dark, who cried whenever his Peacekeeper left to patrol distant districts, who held her hand in the dark barracks when no one could see them. He wasn't always brutal. He was never brutal with her.

He talks about how his heart stopped and his knees buckled when Prim's name was called. Not only because she was Prim, and she was so fragile and good and young, but because he know what would happen next, because he knew Katniss. How he felt his world crumbling to bits, but didn't dare tell her how he felt. How much he loved her. Because, he knew, that love wasn't enough to save her.

She talks about saying goodbye to Cato. He had told her, before, that he intended to volunteer for the Games. He had said it was for honor, and to support his mam; his father had died years ago, putting down an uprising in 8. But that last day, saying his last goodbye, he admitted that there was another reason that he volunteered; he knew that she wouldn't volunteer if he did, not if only one of them could come back alive, and he didn't didn't didn't want her in that arena. Even if she could handle herself, thank you very much. Even if she was stronger than any of the other tributes could be. Even if he trusted her skills more than his own.

Because he loved her, and couldn't bare to watch her in the Games.

His final words to her were "Cass, when I come home, will you marry me?"

They were all of 18 years old.

Her final words to him were, "Yes, of course. I love you."

It wasn't enough to bring him home again.

Peeta and Katniss weren't the only doomed lovers of Panem.

She cries then, hands for once still, covering her face as she sobs, and he watches. He can understand her hurt, better than anyone else can, because he knows what it's like to be left behind. To see your love volunteer to walk to almost-sure death and not be able to do anything about it. To lose the only person who really ever meant anything to you. To know that love isn't enough.

But there's something stirring inside of him, too, beneath the empathy and mutual hurt.

This broken, brave, beautiful girl is crying for another man. And Gale realizes with a start that he minds.

It's been almost a year since he moved to District 2. Almost a year since he lost Katniss forever. Almost a year since he met Cassia.

Is it too soon?

It is. It takes him, and her, nearly a decade to get over their first loves. Nearly a decade to let go of the past. Nearly a decade to realize that hearts are infinite; part of Cassia's heart will always belong to Cato, and Katniss fills a piece of Gale that no one else will ever be able to touch.

But.

Cassia has a place in Gale's heart too, a place that is different from the bit that Kat filled, but every bit as important. And Gale has a claim to a section of Cassia's heart, too, a place that never belonged to Cato.

It takes them nearly a decade to open up these broken hearts of theirs once more and trust that love can be enough.

So in the end, they do fall in love, and give their hearts – broken and bruised and battered, but still beating – to each other. And when their son is born – handsome as his father, with hands as clever as his mother's – they name him for love. For the parts of their hearts that they thought could never love again. For the parts of their hearts that would only ever belong to Cato, Katniss, and their son, Catneth, whom they loved with their whole hearts.

**A/N this is one of the longest one shot I have ever written, and also the first time I really made an OC. Making OC's is hard. mad props to everyone who can do it! Sorry the ending is really cheesy, haha. As always, reviews are lovely :)**


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